


O Miserable Creator

by Oshii



Category: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: Grief, Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, Original Frankenstein, misunderstood monster, unloved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshii/pseuds/Oshii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You created me, gave me life - shouldn't I be perfect in your eyes?" Originally published 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O Miserable Creator

**Author's Note:**

> "You created me, gave me life - shouldn't I be perfect in your eyes?" How would you feel if your creator fled the room in terror after one look at you? Explores the Monster's possible emotions towards Victor after his rebirth.

O miserable creator, why must you run from me so? The being who hath thus far been responsible for my very existence – I find it greatly disturbing and sorrowful that you should flee the very sight of me.

My introduction – or, more aptly, rebirth – into this world was violent and unwelcome. The electricity coursing through my body caused my limbs to contort and convulse – caused my cold, dead heart to beat with frenzied, erratic palpitations. You infused me with new blood, fresh, living blood, that crawled through my long-shriveled veins, enriching them, satiating their thirst. Like an exhausted, sun-parched man dying in the desert finding heavenly repose within an oasis, the modge-podge of cells and organs within my body drank down the blood – made spicy with electric current – and feverishly emitted jolts of life until my eyes opened at long last, still glazed with the asphyxiating sleep of death, to see you, my creator.

You appeared…distraught. As if I had not come out to your fancy. This struck me as odd – you created me, gave me life, shouldn't I be perfect in your eyes? I opened and closed my mouth, my brain recalling perfectly the actions needed for breathing but not, so much, the patterns required to form coherent speech. My words came out as mumbles and grunts, the sounds only adding to your fear, not to mention my own agitation.

"Wretch…" you uttered, fear blooming in your eyes. You pivoted on your heel and fled the room in that same instant, leaving me shocked and confused. Was the mere fact of my unhallowed existence truly so horrible? I looked down at myself with curiosity that quickly transmuted to contempt. O creator, no wonder you gaped and fled so shamelessly! My unnaturally large frame contains scarcely enough skin to conceal the mapping network of roped muscle and veins beneath; my appearance is made all the more gruesome by the large, crude stitches holding my limbs together. I know not what my face looks like, though now I should harbor no real desire to find out. Truly, I must be hideous.

I remained in my birth-room for an unspecified amount of time – perhaps several hours. The cold stone of the floor I paced upon had become my anchoring point. I attempted to control myself, control the ever-growing urge to bolt from this room, to seek out my creator and convince you that I really am not so terrible, despite what my ghastly appearance might suggest.

One question remained the strongest in my mind, screaming out above all the others – why did you ever aspire to create such an ugly monster as myself? Surely you had a vast multitude of options at your disposal for your secret toils (I would imagine digging up corpses and re-assembling them into a grotesque specimen upon which to bestow life where life was naught would be highly frowned upon in your society), and yet you chose the parts that would certainly prove to elicit nothing save for wretchedness?

I must find my creator.

It took several tries, but I finally stumbled upon you in your bedchamber, engrossed in a fitful slumber. The yellow moonlight filtering in through the window cast eerie shadows against the walls, threw your seemingly feeble form into silhouette. A sheen of cold sweat was illuminated upon your skin, and your brow was furrowed with displeasure – I wonder if your expression has even changed at all since you first laid eyes upon me.

Slowly, silently, I crept over to your bedside, my undead heart pumping sluggishly ( I do hope you took great pains to ensure none of my organs – the very vital kind, at least – were infested with maggots before bestowing them to me). My hand was mere inches away from your shoulder when suddenly you woke of your own accord with a choked gasp. You saw me and uttered a shocked cry, fingers clutching the blanket, eyes bulging with fright as you took in my immeasurable repulsiveness.

I tried desperately to speak, to make you understand – my face contorted in pain at your appalled countenance, and I reached for you, wanting nothing more than to know WHY you abhorred me so – your own creation!

But alas, before I could even begin to ask anything, you ducked out from under my arm and sprinted from the room.

O miserable creator!

My sorrow and confusion was abruptly replaced with anger.

Foolish, cowardly creator! Surely it must have been no easy task – no luxurious task – to spend your days in secrecy, digging through graveyards, toiling away at your research, denying yourself of rest and health for the sake of doing that which no man has ever done before – bestowing new life to a nonliving being. Your efforts would certainly not go without reward – should you succeed, your colleagues would have applauded you, revered you for generations to come. You would have gone down in history. Entire volumes would have been dedicated to you and your magnificent achievements. You would have had the great honour of having an entirely new species accredited to your name and your name alone. You would have perceived me to be the greatest thing in your life – when you looked upon me, your eyes would have been filled with enamoured wonder, not blatant terror and loathing.

I am the very definition of what is called a miracle, creator, whether you acknowledge this fact or not.

You disgust me, creator.


End file.
